


Nicky the Archer (A love letter to archery)

by KitMiller



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Archery, Betaed, Bets & Wagers, Bittersweet Ending, But mostly it's fluff and archery nerdery, Canon Compliant, Chapters 1-3 are pre- and 4&5 are post- canon, Character Study, Gen, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, Mentions of temporary death, Or at least not actively contradicting canon, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, Team as Family, because this is TOG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26594770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitMiller/pseuds/KitMiller
Summary: There's a small archery club in South Holland that has a special place in Nicky's heart.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache & Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Comments: 47
Kudos: 143





	1. Warm-up (Recurve)

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't write this so much as I blurted ideas into a google doc. This is as much an Old Guard fanfiction as it is a love letter to archery. The club Nicky goes to is 99% based on one of the clubs I went to — they really do have barbecues almost every time! The only thing that isn't based on real life is that Nicky's club is in the Netherlands.
> 
> Features a few bits of non-English dialogue, translations are in the end notes.

_South Holland, September 2017._

Nicky likes this club. He goes there as often as he can. Their range is beautiful, though tiny — the farthest target being 50m, a laughable distance for his compound bow — right in the countryside and flanked on one side by a pasture, where a couple of very friendly Haflinger horses live, and a football field on the other. He cycles there most days; this is the Netherlands, after all. The route takes him along meadows a-buzz with bees and field larks, orchards heavy with plump, red apples, and through a cool, dim stretch of forest beginning to turn red, all bathed in golden afternoon light.

The people are friendly, and usually have a barbecue in the middle of training hours, but, like all archers, know the value of quiet and solitude, and leave him alone when he wants to be left alone. The club isn't big enough to get divided into age groups. He likes that, too. Naturally, they tend to gravitate into age groups anyway, but everyone is at the range at the same time, talking to each other and learning from each other. It doesn't matter, here, if you're eight or eighty. Here, he can ignore his age. 

Nicky chains his bike to the fence outside the range and lifts the strap of the cumbersome, garishly green compound bow bag over his shoulder, over the rucksack for the recurve bow he also has on his back. He owns a smaller bag for the compound bow, in camo colours, but he uses that on missions and it has a few irremovable stains he really doesn't feel like explaining.

The gate rattles as it falls shut behind him and all heads turn. He lifts his hand in greeting and gets smiles and nods in return. He recognises a few faces but there's just as many that he's never seen before. He zeroes in on one of the free tables and starts setting up. He's in the process of stringing his recurve bow — the string is fuzzy, he needs to remember to wax it — when an all too familiar voice behind him says, " _Ik geloof het niet_ _!_ Nicolò Genovese?"

"Paulien," he says, smiling already. He effortlessly finishes stringing his bow before he turns and embraces her.

Paulien, the club president, is a stout woman in her forties, and possessed of an iron will and a warm smile. She holds him at arm's length, looking him up and down. "What do I have to promise you to get you to join our competition team?" she asks, like she is asking every time she sees him.

Nicky huffs a laugh. "Staying in one place for more than a few weeks at a time would be great."

She nods ruefully. "The curses of globalisation. Where are you coming from this time?"

"Italy."

"Visiting family?"

He just shakes his head and doesn't offer any explanation. 

She nods again. She starts walking away to talk to someone else, but then turns back around. "Joe?"

He shakes his head again. "Next time."

"I'll get halal barbecue," she promises, and he grins in gratitude.

When he steps up to the shooting line, he takes a moment to rest his bow on his foot, lean his head against it, and close his eyes. Behind him, he hears the other archers chatting, greeting each other, laughing. From even further in the distance come the dull thuds of a football being kicked around, the excited shouts and yells of teenagers in the middle of a training match and the encouragements from their coach. The air smells of artificial turf and dry grass and the first hints of autumn. The sun shines warm on Nicky's face, and a light breeze caresses his cheek like a lover. 

All of a sudden, he is overwhelmed by a rush of happiness and almost wants to cry. He laughs quietly to himself instead. 

Then he takes an arrow from the quiver at his belt, nocks it, breathes in deep and slowly out. Shifts his weight just a little, puts it on the balls of his feet, almost feeling the ground push against him through the soles of his shoes. He raises his bow. Breathes in. Breathes out. Sights. His vision zeroes in on the small piece of paper he had fixed on the otherwise empty target. He draws. Breathes in. Breathes out. His shoulder blades come together and his gloved hand comes to a rest on his jaw. He breathes in. 

He releases.

 _Twang. Hiss. Thud._ The arrow embeds itself into the paper.

Nicky relaxes, focussing on the tension in his body, his breathing. He sweeps his gaze around the perimeter, mapping it all in his head and automatically filing away three separate exit strategies that he will never need. Then he takes another arrow from the quiver.

He cycles through all twelve arrows like that, smoothly and unhurriedly. Between each shot, he takes a moment to breathe and adjust the unnecessary exit strategies to account for even the most miniscule of changes. He doesn't even need to think while he does so. He's been doing this for centuries.

By the time his quiver is empty, the line has filled up. Some targets have two archers to them. He goes three more rounds, then he heads back to his gear to get his compound bow. He swaps the arrows in his quiver, adjusts the sights and stabilisers on the compound, grabs a brand-new target paper and the release aid, and heads down the line to the farthest target. He fixes the paper to the target while the other archers gather their arrows. When he's back at the line, he nocks an arrow, clips the release aid to the string, and begins training in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ik geloof het niet!" -- Nl. "I don't believe it!"


	2. Decoration (Gakgung)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe's here!

Joe is with him today. He feeds the very friendly Haflingers a couple of apple slices while Nicky chains the bikes to the fence. Joe laughs, and Nicky lifts his head to see the smaller ones of the Haflingers nuzzle at Joe's pockets. "No, see, it's empty," he tells it in that archaic dialect of Arabic that only he, Nicky, and Andy still speak. The horse shakes its mane and ambles away.

Joe hooks his pinkie around Nicky's when they enter the range. He has to let go almost right away, though, because he has to return enthusiastic greetings and accept offered handshakes and hugs. Nicky doesn't mind. Everybody loves Joe, he can't fault anyone for it. Paulien is asking Joe about their recent stay in Italy, and he animatedly tells her all about museums and libraries and long walks on the beach. He makes it sound like they easily filled three weeks or more that way, even though they had been in Italy for a little under two and museums and libraries and walks on the beach featured only very briefly. 

When Nicky tries to talk to outsiders, the sheer amount of filtering, omissions, and lies he has to apply to his speech reduce him to barely more than 'It was nice.' Joe makes it seem easy.

Nicky smiles to himself while he unpacks. He sets the small bow he brought for warm-up today aside for now and spreads out his protective gear — chest guard, arm guard, glove. The leather is old and supple with wear. He made it himself, a few years ago. He'll need a new set soon; there's only so many times one can redo the seams before it becomes pointless.

He wonders what Joe will come up with next. All of Nicky's sets are richly decorated by him. He's had sets with Islamic geometric patterns, one with Celtic knots, and more sets with calligraphy in various languages than he can count on one hand. The one he uses at the moment is all floral, the flowers carefully chosen, expertly carved, and the colours suggested with delicate touches of paint in the lines. There's jasmines and gladioli, primroses, bellflowers, and amaranths, and a sneaky green carnation, with laurel and olive leaves wound throughout.

On his chest guard, like on chest guards before, Nicky had also carved Joe's name in Arabic script, his heart beating beneath it. He doesn't remember who carved it that first time, over two hundred years ago. He doesn't even remember if it had been in jest or earnest. All he remembers is that two hundred years ago, someone carved Joe's name on his chest guard and that was that. Joe had not needed any more incentive to take the chest guard and make a work of art out of it.

Nicky becomes aware of eyes on him and he looks up. Two teenage girls are hovering close by, eyeing his bow. "Is something the matter?" he asks.

"We're just wondering what that is," says one, gesturing to his bow. Unstrung, it bends back so far it becomes nearly circular.

"This," says Nicky, picking it up, "is a Korean horn bow. It's known as a Gakgung, or sometimes Gukgung. This one here is made of bamboo, sinew, mulberry wood, and buffalo horn." He strings it. It stands barely taller than his compound. "See how short it is? That's why it reflexes so much. It makes it very powerful for its size."

He lets the girls hold it for a moment. The one with the braid tentatively puts her fingers on the string in a three-under draw, looking to him for permission. He smiles. "You wouldn't use that draw for it," he says. He motions, and she hands the bow back. He slips a thumb ring on one-handed and demonstrates the thumb draw.

The girls crowd closer, eyes wide in fascination. "I've never seen that kind of draw," the one with the ponytail remarks. "I always thought that was just what amateurs did."

Nicky laughs softly, relaxing the bow. "You could draw the Gakgung like a European bow, but the thumb draw is the traditional way." He runs his hand up and down the bow limb. "The Gakgung has a long, long history, going back more than two thousand years. For centuries, this little bow beat back invaders and it even held its own against early firearms. There's a reason it's also known as the 'national bow' in Korea. Archery has been the national sport of Korea for over a hundred years. They still use natural materials, even in competitions. You can get ones made from fibreglass, but I find the old version is the best, the most satisfying." He pauses, regarding the bow in his hand. "I may be biased, though."

"You are, love," says Joe, and it's only then that Nicky realises the whole club is listening to his impromptu lecture. He shoots Joe a crooked, private smile. Joe grins back. Nicky basks in the intimacy of their shared secret.

"How did you get one of these?" asks Paulien.

"I made it myself," Nicky replies, "the last time I was in Korea. I had a set of bamboo arrows too, but they broke a long time ago. I didn't get the proper materials to make new ones yet."

"How?" the girl with the ponytail asks, full of disbelief.

Nicky tilts his head. He's not sure he understood. "Naturally, I was taught by a master of the craft, but —"

"No, I mean, you have, like, a different bow every time you're here," the girl clarifies. "How do you have so many? And why?"

"I'm a historian," Nicky replies. "My specialty is weaponry." Neither of those statements are a lie. He holds a small collection of PhDs from various universities and various points in time. Once, there had even been a Prof. Dr. Nicholas Smith, who taught for a year or two but tragically died because of a slip in the shower. He was survived by a loving husband, an older sister, and a younger brother, and a half-finished book on the history of the labrys that is severely lacking in the citation department. The bit with the shower isn't a lie, either, he really had died that way, and none of the others, not even Joe, would let him live it down. Given that the team was itching to move on, and that the book was never going to be taken seriously anyway — all of it was true, of course, at least according to Andy, but she wasn't exactly what could be called a scholarly source — he had rolled with it.

The girls look like they're waiting for him to elaborate. He considers if he should, but then decides to just give them a nod and busy himself with filling his quiver with the carbon arrows he uses in lieu of bamboo. He looks at Joe, who looks back with a smile lifting just one side of his mouth, and walks down to the shooting line. 

Joe follows him. He takes up position in one of the rusty lawn chairs that are scattered across the range, a few steps behind and to the side of Nicky. He crosses his legs and opens his sketchbook on his knee. 

Nicky shoots. Joe draws. The line fills up. The girls, and some of the older archers too, are watching him — or rather, his bow — when they have emptied their quivers and his own still contains two arrows. He knows they want to ask, about the bow, about the technique, maybe about its history, and if he were a better man, or perhaps an ordinary man with fewer secrets, he would invite them to ask. But he is not, and he just wants to shoot.

He doesn't count how many rounds he shoots before he lowers his bow and goes back to Joe. But if it's a little earlier than he had originally intended because the staring is unnerving him, well. It could just as easily be because he wants to see what Joe has drawn.

The sketchbook Joe is using is almost full. He tilts it so Nicky can see. The top of the left page is taken up by a detailed drawing of the range; the rest of the page is covered in quick sketches of whatever caught Joe's eye — a target that is more holes than polystyrene foam, someone laughing, a blackbird with no sense of self-preservation, Nicky's hand on the bow, Nicky's fingers on the string, Nicky's eyes fixed on the target, _Nicky_ — the lines leaping and dancing across the paper. And the right hand side is a large, full-body portrait of Nicky just as the arrow flies from the Gakgung.

Nicky smiles. Nobody has worn clothes like the ones he wears in the picture for hundreds of years, and certainly never this far West.

"I'm shooting compound now," he says, straightening. "Spot for me?"

"Always, _tesoro_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tesoro" -- It. "Darling, sweetheart" (lit. "Treasure")
> 
> -Jasmines: unconditional and eternal love, and it's the national flower of Tunisia  
> -Gladiolus: strength of character and honour; its name means "little sword"  
> -Primroses and bellflowers: eternal and unwavering love  
> -Amaranths: immortality and immortal love  
> -Green carnation: popularised by Oscar Wilde, it was worn by gay men in the 19th/20th century to identify one another  
> -Italy doesn't really have a national plant or flower, but there's an olive and a laurel branch in its crest; olive also stands for peace, and laurels for success
> 
> Did Joe really find a way to sing Nicky's praises in the language of flowers? You bet he did.
> 
> I tried to do Proper Research™ on the Gakgung, but there aren't many scholarly articles about it in languages I can read. So I had to contend with Wikipedia.


	3. Robin Hood (Longbow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole gang is here!

Andy and Booker are bored. There is apparently nothing on TV or on Netflix, Booker already read every book in the house twice and for some reason doesn't want to go into town and buy some new ones — Nicky suspects it's because his Dutch is terrible but he won't admit it — and Andy — well, Andy becomes restless after a while, regardless of their location. So that day, the two decide they want to come along to the range.

They take the car, which Nicky feels conflicted about. On the one hand, the bike ride to the range is an integral part of the experience for him. On the other, it _is_ a pain to cycle with a six-foot longbow _and_ a compound bow. The longbow is a pain in the car, too, sticking out from the boot into the backseat between Nicky and Booker. 

At the range, Andy and Booker each grab a beer, install themselves in lawn chairs, and run a commentary in Greek about the archers and their form. Nicky filters it out like he does all background noise. He warms up with the longbow, then Joe spots for him as he works with the compound. 

He doesn't know how much time has passed when Andy calls Nicky's name. He turns towards Andy, spreading his hands. _Yes?_

Andy is holding his longbow aloft. "Can I play with this?"

He nods. "I'll get you some arrows." Joe takes his compound and Nicky heads to his gear. He tosses Andy some spare protective equipment he has in his bag for emergencies that never occur, sharing a look with her that says _I know you don't need it but what can you do._ Then he selects twelve arrows and joins Andy, Joe, and Booker. 

"What kind of shitty arrows are these?" Andy sounds disgusted, offended. She isn't wrong. He had redone the fletching numerous times and it shows, the heads are blunt, and the shafts brittle. One of them sheds splinters like a cat does hair in the spring. "Give me better ones, I know you have dozens."

"No. You'll break them," Nicky replies bluntly. "I'd rather you break ones that I was about to throw out anyway than ones I just made."

Joe laughs, and Booker chuckles, too. Andy glares first at them, then Nicky. "Hit the gold, that's the point, isn't it?" she says. "It's not my fault I hit gold every time."

"If you hit gold already, feel free to aim a centimetre to the side," Nicky retorts. "I'm sick of you breaking my arrows."

"You're just mad I can split an arrow and you can't."

Booker sucks in a breath that's half laughter, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and Joe wolf whistles.

Nicky doesn't let any of it faze him. If anything, it makes him calmer. "I can do it," he says. "Just as well as you can, boss."

Andy looks at him. Determination burns in her eyes. "First me, then you. We each split an arrow."

Nicky scoffs. "One? You insult me, Andromache."

"Fine. Three, then." Andy grabs the arrows and stalks to the fifty-metre target.

"Five hundred," Booker pipes up. He waves a wad of bills. "On Andy winning."

"Five hundred she won't," is all Nicky says.

They shake on it. Joe looks positively gleeful.

Nicky goes to stand next to Andy. "What are the rules?"

"We get four shots each," she says, examining the longbow, testing it. "The first doesn't count. The other three must each split the previous one."

Nicky nods. Then he takes a few steps back. Joe positions himself and his scope next to Andy, sketchbook at the ready to keep score.

Andy nocks the first arrow and Nicky watches her closely. Her breathing is carefully even. Her body is tense. She fiddles with her draw, starting with Mediterranean, then three-under, briefly considers a Hungarian two-finger draw, then settles on three-under. She takes a long time to sight, adjusting her stance minutely but precisely. If Nicky didn't know her, he'd think it was nerves; but he knows it's because she has something to prove.

Finally, she draws, breathes in, and releases. The first shot is unspectacular. To nobody's surprise, the arrow hits right in the centre of the gold.

After that, she has settled. The second draw is much quicker and smoother. 

The _crunch_ is audible even from fifty metres away and Nicky cringes. Yes, they are old, brittle arrows, but the shafts were good ash wood and he spent hours whittling each to perfection. He can forget about the heads, too. They are certainly beyond saving, even if he were able to dig them out of the polystyrene foam.

Joe, eye pressed to the scope, whistles, impressed. "That's one." Andy gives Nicky a smirk over her shoulder. Booker's mouth twists.

Nicky does not rise to the bait. His hands clasped behind his back, he impassively watches Andy nock another arrow. The fletching of that one may as well not be there anymore. And damn Andy if she splits the previous arrow even with that horrid thing. 

"Two," says Joe, jotting it down. He glances at Nicky, half in commiseration, half in anticipatory _schadenfreude_.

Booker hums, bobbing gently up and down on the balls of his feet with his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks like a school boy. He leans towards Nicky and says conspiracionally, "I'd take an IOU if you don't have the cash on you."

Nicky is surrounded by idiots. Lovable, wonderful idiots. His mouth twists into a tiny smile. 

And if they are idiots, then surely he is one too, being the one to have goaded Andy into this little competition. But this is a question of honour; he won't let anyone insult his shooting skills and walk away from it without a fight, not even Andromache the Scythian.

By the last shot, Andy doesn't look bored, per se, but she has the relaxed expression of someone so skilled at what they are doing, it's as straightforward as breathing. She releases. For a second or two, everyone holds their breath. Then there comes the _crunch_ , and Joe checks, and laughs the way he laughs when he is completely overjoyed, with his whole body. 

Booker high-fives Andy on his way down to clear the target, and Andy's grin is smug and rightfully proud. 

"Well done, boss," Nicky says when he accepts the bow from her. She nods.

Booker comes back, and Nicky steps up to the line. He glances around. More and more of the other archers have abandoned their targets to instead watch their competition. Nicky can't say he enjoys having an audience, and would probably find a way to escape attention under less important circumstances, but he'd be a poor soldier if he let something as trivial as that get in the way of his performance when it matters.

So he just takes a few grounding breaths and focuses on his body. He sights. Draws. Releases. _Twang. Hiss. Thud._

Next to him, Joe nods. The playing field has been set up. Now onto the main game. 

The ground pushes against the soles of his shoes. He breathes in. Breathes out. He raises his bow and sights. Breathes in. Breathes out. He draws until his hand rests on his jaw. He breathes in. He releases.

_Twang. Hiss. Crunch._

"One." Joe gives him a wide grin. Booker gives him a deep frown. Andy's face is blank.

Nicky breathes in and out and ignores them. 

_Twang. Hiss. Crunch._

"Two!" 

Booker's face sours. He's no longer bobbing. 

Nicky nocks the final arrow. Breathes in. Breathes out. Raises the bow. Sights. Breathes in.

And lowers the bow. He can't say what, but something was wrong. Some muscle did not do what it was supposed to do. He rests the bow on his foot and takes a moment to close his eyes. He breathes in, takes in the dusty smell of dry leaves, the breeze playing with his hair and making the trees murmur, and when he breathes out, something slots back into place.

He opens his eyes. Sights. Draws. Releases.

_Twang._

_Hiss._

_Crunch._

" _Merde!_ " Booker exclaims.

Joe whoops with joy, twirls Nicky around, and presses a kiss on his cheek, not caring that Nicky almost smacks him in the head with the longbow by accident. Warmth fills Nicky from head to toe.

Andy grins and pats him on the shoulder hard enough to send him staggering a step. Then she gives him a hug. He squeezes her tightly, putting all his love for her into the embrace. "Well, you showed me," she says when she lets go. "I shouldn't have doubted you."

Nicky just smiles at her. There's no words for the overwhelming happiness he feels at that moment, triumphant, with his family around him. At this beautiful little range.

Oh.

He looks towards their audience. He forgot they were there.

They all look a little dumbstruck. A few of them applaud.

"Anything," Paulien exclaims. "I will give you literally anything at all if it will make you join our competition team. I'll give you my firstborn!" Her firstborn, standing right behind her, raises an eyebrow at her the way only a teenage boy can.

"No, thanks," says Andy. Nicky tries and probably fails to not look smug when Booker, swearing under his breath, slams the wad of bills into his open hand. "We aren't competitive," Andy adds.

Paulien shakes her head. Nicky thinks this might be the first time he's seen her speechless.

They stay for a little longer, but the attention they have drawn to themselves makes all of them uneasy. So when Andy catches his eye and tilts her head towards the exit, he nods, and begins packing up.

"I think I deserve my money back," says Booker.

Nicky doesn't look up from unscrewing the frontal stabiliser on his compound. "I disagree. I won the bet."

"You didn't beat Andy, though," Booker insists.

"That wasn't the bet," Nicky replies, removing the stabiliser. "The bet was Andy winning or not winning. Not if I could beat her. The competition was a draw; neither Andy nor I won. That means I won the bet." He gives Booker a sweet smile. "Do you want to know what I'm going to spend the money on?"

"Ugh." Booker throws up his hands and leaves. 

Nicky smiles at his gear. He doesn't actually know what he should spend the money on. He probably won't spend it all in one go. And very likely, it'll get back to Booker eventually. But it's such fun to tease Booker, and he makes it so easy, as well.

Joe, Booker, and Andy wait at the gate for him. Andy and Booker wrangle the longbow into the car.

"Do you want to keep these?" Joe holds out the ruined arrows, and Nicky mournfully takes them from him. "At least you had fun," Joe consoles him.

Nicky laughs softly. He bumps his shoulder into Joe's. "I did."

"I never doubted you, you know," says Joe.

Nicky laughs out loud at that. "Liar." Then he kisses Joe's cheek.

Joe pulls him a little closer so he can murmur in Nicky's ears in Arabic. "It is a marvel, watching you be excellent."

Nicky grins, and gives him another kiss.

_(A week later, Andy gives him the finest materials for arrows that she could find, enough for two dozen arrows.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Merde!" -- Fr. "Shit!"
> 
> The "Robin Hood" shot is a difficult and impressive feat, and three times in a row is basically impossible. But then again, so is immortality.


	4. Coach (Compound)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nile is here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while, this chapter gave me so much trouble! I rewrote it twice!  
> To give you an idea of how I just could not get it right, there was a passage I put in, then rewrote, then I took it out completely, then put it back in, then took it out again.

_August 2020._

"This is Nile," Nicky says in English, his hand on her shoulder. "She's learning how to shoot." He taught her the basics in a field somewhere in the Czech Republic over the course of a few days' downtime. Then, for the next month, life was a chaotic vortex of killing, being killed, and killing the ones who had killed them. Nicky is really, really glad to be in Holland again.

"Nice to meet you," Nile says. She and Paulien shake hands. "Sorry, I don't speak much Dutch yet," Nile adds.

" _Maar ze leert snel_ ," Joe says from behind her. Nile grins at him over her shoulder. Joe pats her on the back. "Let's get you set up." They go to the nearest table.

Nicky lingers. "Would you mind if I taught her?" he asks Paulien in Dutch. "I'm sure your coaches could teach her just as well, but —"

"My coaches could not teach her half the things you can do," Paulien cuts him off. "Speaking of, I happen to have an open position, if you're looking for work that doesn't send you across the globe on a regular basis?"

He laughs. "I'd love that, but I am actually quite happy with what I do."

Paulien shrugs in good humour. "Worth a try."

Nicky joins Joe and Nile over at the table where Joe is helping her string her bow. It's a simple, modern take-down recurve made mostly of aluminium and fibreglass. Not what Nicky would choose for himself, but an excellent choice for Nile's first bow.

"I was wondering, by the way," Nile says when the bow is strung and she is flexing her fingers in the still-a-little-unfamiliar leather glove she made under Nicky's watchful eye. "This whole gear seems kinda pointless for us."

"The point of protective gear is not just to prevent injury," Nicky says. "It's also to prevent pain. Pain makes you tremble and flinch. And that messes up your shot." He reaches out and carefully adjusts a strap of her chest guard. "And this is so the string doesn't get caught on your shirt. That messes up your shot, too."

"Plus, you gotta keep up appearances," Joe adds. 

Nicky smirks. "That, too. And it's club rules." 

The three of them walk down to the targets together. Nile sverves towards the twenty-metre ones, but Nicky guides her back to ten with a brief hand on her shoulder. 

"You let me shoot at twenty last time," she protests.

"That was last month," he says. "You haven't had the chance to practice since then." 

"So I'm back to square one?"

"No, no," he reassures her. "But you'll need to practice a while until you're back to where we left off. I will, too." He nods towards the target. "Go ahead."

He watches her closely as she shoots the first two arrows, then steps in. "You're working with your arms too much," he says. "Use your back."

"You keep saying that," Nile replies. "I'm not sure I get what you mean."

"Let me show you." He moves to stand behind her. "Can I touch you, Nile?" In the months since she joined the team, Nicky has of course touched her before — hugging her, patting her shoulder, putting a reassuring hand on her back — but that feels quite different from taking hold of her and moving her arms and shoulders and hands in the right positions.

"Sure."

He adjusts her stance. Turns her left elbow outwards. Pushes her shoulder down. Lifts her right elbow. "Here," he tells her, running his index finger down her trapezius. "When you draw, don't move your arm, move this muscle." 

"I — what?"

He frowns, thinking about how best to explain it in English. "Bring your shoulder blades together," he says. Close enough.

"Ohhh."

Nicky keeps talking to her through the next few shots. Nile is endlessly patient with him when he stutters again and again because he can't remember what a certain term is in English and has to ask Joe to look it up on his phone.

Nile reaches for the next arrow while her bow is still quivering. Nicky puts a hand on her arm. "Slow down, Nile. We're in no hurry."

She nods, and moves through the next shot in slow motion. But then she speeds right back up with the next, and the next. When that one crashes into the wooden frame of the target, she groans.

Joe laughs. Laughter comes so easy to him, and he can't keep it in even when he tries. Normally, Nicky finds it endearing. But it is not helpful right now.

Nicky frowns at him. "You're being unkind, Joe."

That sobers him immediately. "I'm sorry, Nile. I'm being an ass."

"Y'all know I had a brother, right?" she retorts, a smirk on her face. "But apology accepted."

Joe and Nicky catch each other's eyes over her head. Her use of the past tense has not escaped either of them. It was so carefully casual, it had to be fake.

Nicky says, "Anyway, remember to take your time."

"Yessir," she drawls.

Nicky and Joe watch her for a little longer, but Nicky is beginning to itch for his own bow. It's not just Nile who hasn't been practicing for a month. "Will you be all right on your own, Nile?" Nicky asks finally.

She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile she can't quite suppress. "Yes, I'm a big girl. Go practice with that ridiculous contraption of yours."

Nicky laughs alongside Joe. He can't argue with her assessment of the compound bow. "Call if you need me," he tells her when he and Joe leave for the fifty-metre target, on the other side of the range.

"Sure."

While Joe sets up the scope, Nicky adjusts the sights on his bow. He breathes deeply. Then he nocks an arrow, clips the release aid to the string, and raises his bow.

Nicky takes full advantage of the fact that the compound can be held at full draw for several minutes. He only releases by the time most other archers on the line have shot three arrows. _Click. Hiss. Thud._

Joe is shaking his head, eye to the scope. "Were you aiming that far left?" he asks in Arabic.

"You know I wasn't," Nicky grumbles in the same language. 

Joe looks at him, expression soft. He knows exactly what's on Nicky's mind. Nicky loves him. "You're just a little rusty after a month of no practice, _habibi_. A day or two, and you'll be right back on track."

Nicky puts his hand on Joe's arm and breathes in. When he breathes out, he lets go of his frustration. "Thank you, Joe," he says quietly, and smiles when Joe smiles. 

Then he rolls his shoulders, adjusts his weight until the ground pushes against the soles of his shoes, and nocks another arrow. He takes even longer to aim this time. _Click. Hiss. Thud._

Still a little off. But the only way to remedy that is to keep going. So he keeps going.

He doesn't pay it much attention when the preparations for the barbecue pick up. It's just another set of familiar background sensations that he can ignore without filtering it out completely. But Nile keeps looking over her shoulder between shots, watching them set up. Sometimes she glances back at Nicky, and while he doesn't look back — once his eyes are on a target, they don't leave it until a projectile is in it — he sees her. 

When his quiver is empty, he leaves his bow with Joe and walks up to her. She's still working with her arms more than with her back. 

"Are you hungry?" he asks when her quiver is empty, too.

She grins. "I didn't think I was, but that just smells divine."

Nicky fishes in his pockets and picks a few euro coins out of the eclectic assortment of bric-a-brac he keeps in there. One of the euros turns out to be two pounds sterling so he puts that back and hands Nile the rest. "Go take a break."

Nile nods, looking down at the coins with the start of a frown pulling on her brow.

Nicky waits, and when she doesn't move, he asks, "Is everything all right, Nile?"

"Yeah," she replies, letting out a rush of breath. "It's just —" she shakes her head, motions with the coins. "This is something my dad would do. Hand me some cash and tell me to get myself something nice." She starts, and stutters. "Not that I — I'm not saying you're, like —"

He stops her before she can run herself into a downward spiral of unnecessary embarrassment. "It's okay, Nile." He squeezes her shoulder. She glances at him, then fixes her eyes on the target that still has her arrows stuck in it. Nicky absently notes that they're already much tighter together than they had been an hour before. "I understand. We all do. Go have some food. You'll feel better."

She grins again, and he is relieved that it's genuine. "You're so Italian, it's embarrassing."

He smiles back and shrugs.

She bumps her shoulder into his when she passes him, and he goes to collect her arrows. 

Joe has already collected Nicky's by the time he rejoins him. "Nile's having food," Nicky tells him, nodding over to the large table where Nile is already deep in conversation with Paulien's eldest, a full plate in front of her. "Aren't you hungry?"

Joe smirks. "Even if I were starving, it could not prevent me from watching you." Then he winks.

Nicky snorts and punches him lightly in the arm. "You're meant to watch the target, not me." He leans in for a kiss. "I'd rather not have you starve. Come. Let's both go eat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Maar ze leert snel." -- Nl. "But she learns fast."  
> "Habibi" -- Ar. "My love"
> 
> Nile doesn't see Nicky as a father figure. If anything, she sees him as a bother figure. I couldn't work this joke into the fic without it killing the mood so here it is.  
> And here's another joke that I knew wasn't gonna make it into the fic the moment I thought of it:  
> Nile: "The Netherlands are chill."  
> Nicky, a nine hundred years old warrior whose English mostly comes from reading old novels: "Yes, it is rather cold. Would you like my jacket?"


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There always comes a time when they have to say goodbye.

There's someone new at the club, and Paulien is introducing Nicky. "This is Nicolò Genovese. He's been coming here on and off for almost ten years." She does a double take, looking Nicky up and down. Nicky returns her gaze with a mixture of puzzlement and discomfort. "You must be in your forties now," says Paulien, voice full of wonder. "You don't look a day older than when I met you."

Nicky can feel his face fall. He looks around, at the people, the landscape, the range that has come to mean so much to him. This small, unassuming safe haven he had come back to for rest and peace amidst his turbulent, violent life. His chest feels tight. The ground feels like it's going to drop out from under him.

Nicky realises he hasn't replied to Paulien for at least a minute. His mouth is dry. He wishes Joe were here today. "I can't believe it's been that long, either," he mumbles, accent as heavy as his heart.

One week later, Nicky zips up the compound bag and lifts the strap over his shoulder. He breathes out. 

"Where are you headed this time?" Paulien asks. She's smiling, oblivious. Nicky hadn't had the heart to tell her. Just because he had almost a millennium of practice saying farewell doesn't mean he is any good at it.

Nicky can't look at her, instead fixing his eyes on the grill being wheeled out of the equipment shed. "South Africa," he says.

He doesn't elaborate and Paulien knows asking won't make him. "Don't get sunburned," is all she says.

He snorts quietly. "I don't sunburn," he replies.

Over by the bicycles, Joe tilts his head at him. He knows Nicky's stalling. Nicky can't help it. Joe must have seen it on his face because he comes over. "I hate to rush you, _habibi_ ," he says, a gentle, grounding hand on his elbow, "but we gotta get groceries on our way home and the shops are about to close." What he actually means is _Don't draw this out, it'll only make it harde_ r.

Nicky nods. "Goodbye, Paulien," he says, shaking her hand. And then, because he has to, he embraces her. "You've created something truly special here," he says when he lets go. " _Dank je wel._ "

Paulien grins. "Thank _you_!"

Nicky nods at her, then he and Joe get their bikes, and Nicky closes the gate behind him. Joe's hand rests in the small of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Habibi" -- Ar. "My love"  
> "Dank je wel." -- Nl. "Thank you."  
>   
> And thank you for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all need to give a standing ovation to Beth for beta'ing, she hasn't even seen the movie. What have I done to deserve her??


End file.
